Merlin and the Cup of Life
by LifeIndeed
Summary: A retelling of Merlin's tale, in latter-day Camelot: none other than Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Four young 11-year-olds, all destined for greatness, start their first year at Hogwarts-and Merlin along with his friend Gwen can't stand Arthur, son of Headmaster Pendragon. Loosely based off both Philosopher's Stone and Merlin Season 1.
1. In which Destiny lies ahead

It was ten years since the Battle of Hogwarts; ten years since Harry Potter fulfilled his destiny and defeated Lord Voldemort. But it was not the first destiny to be held within the school's ancient walls; nor would it be the last.

You wouldn't think so, looking in on the familiar scene now playing out. A young boy, standing amidst a crowd of young boys and girls, watching nervously as his mother handed his luggage and bird to a tall, uniformed man. She turned back, giving him a worn-out smile.

Everyone looked so excited—and he was too, he had to admit—but their parents only waved cheerily and exchanged loving hugs. Hunith was shaking. Not that his mother was upset he'd be on his way in ten short minutes, setting out for school.

No, she was simply nervous for him; the kind of mother that had to feel all the common emotions her uncommon boy didn't feel, for him. She'd warned him and warned him to be careful—to study hard, keep his head down, and _only use magic when he was told_—but for all his reassurances, _her_ only reassurance seemed to be that some man named Gaius would be one of his teachers.

"Give him this note when you see him," she said to her son, pulling out a thick, folded piece of parchment sealed shut. "And Merlin," she said after he'd hastily nodded, "Don't open it. Just give it to him."

Merlin eye's flicked from side to side, smiling slightly as if her suspicions weren't based off of past events. "Of course, Mum," he said with a grin, slight shoulders shrugging as he took it from her.

Hunith smiled thinly, but when the gangly boy's arms ensnared her waist tightly it turned full and warm. Merlin looked up at her, whispering "Love you," and with that he scampered onto the train, waving madly the entire time. And she couldn't help but wave just as madly back.

Of course, nearby an entirely different exchange was taking place. Two children, though only Merlin's age, stood stiffly and formally as their nanny checked their things. The old woman seemed intent on the girl's personals especially; she even opened the trunk not once but twice to make sure nothing was amiss. The girl sighed impatiently, a dainty yet exasperated sound.

Finally the grim older woman stepped back, looking them up and down. Not a speck of dirt could be seen, not a wrinkle to be found. Their clothes were the best of the best; though in less than an hour they would be exchanging the muggle clothing for school uniforms folded and pressed in their suitcases.

Still, the nanny found a hair out of place on the boy's golden head; her callused fingers rubbed at some invisible smudge of dirt on the girl's cheekbone. "Right then," she said, waving them off. The children turned almost in military fashion, though even for their discipline their feet couldn't help but shuffle in a much quicker fashion to the train door than their nanny would deem appropriate.

It was too late to scold—too late to receive a light smack up the side of their heads or against their wrists. Definitely too late to take away toys or privileges and silently endure lectures they could have recited themselves. So the two children were running by the time their feet hit the floor of the train car, wide smiles splitting their faces.

"Wait, Morgana—" the boy grabbed her by the sleeve, pulling the girl up short. "Are . . . we going to . . . ?" he motioned to the compartments, obviously wondering if they would sit together. The girl snorted and pulled free; she gave him a knowing smile and shook her head.

"See ya, Arthur!" she called over her shoulder, high-tailing it for the next car. Arthur shrugged, sluffing it off quickly and turning to the compartments ahead.

He could sit wherever he pleased, of course; at least, he could as soon as the passengers knew _exactly_ who he was. But Arthur fancied himself a young man capable of rallying allies and friends alike simply through his own efforts, not by the weight of his surname. So when he chose to slide open the door to a compartment full of rowdy, ill-mannered first-years, Arthur had no doubts they would soon be following his lead.

Meanwhile, another girl—quite small for her age, actually—ran with her cart of luggage swinging wildly in front of her, not caring about making friends or getting placed in a house or really anything except that she was about to miss the train. She pulled in large mouthfuls of air as her luggage was taken, barely sliding into the door before 11:00 sharp and the train was pulling out of the station.

One compartment near burst open—or rather, children burst from it. A blonde boy was pushed right into her, knocking them both to the floor of the hallway. "Watch yourself, there," he said, climbing off her. His face sported a cocky sneer and she glared as he dusted himself off.

"Sorry, my fault," said a much gentler voice, and the boy who had seemingly punched the first helped her to her feet, smiling. "What's your name," he said, and the blonde boy snorted and left, obviously not interested enough for it.

"Guinevere," she said shortly, put off by the first boy's standoff-ish attitude. She ignored the other boy's outstretched hand and got to her feet angrily, not caring to hear his name.

After wandering mindlessly she found a compartment empty but for one person; an odd skinny boy sitting with his head rested on his knees, reading a letter with rapt interest.

"Hullo there . . . " she said, not wanting to startle him; he did so anyway, jumping as if he'd been caught. "Hi; um, it's just. Can I sit here?" she gave an apologetic smile, pointing to the bench across from him.

The boy jumped up, immediately smiling in a nervous fashion. "Oh! Sorry, I mean, of course. Of course as in, of course you can sit here." He brushed off the seat like he'd dirtied it, freezing a second of the way into the task as if he just realized what he was doing.

She sat across from him, nodding and smiling and hoping that would put the poor kid at ease. "I'm Guinevere," she said, holding out a hand.

"Merlin," he said with a half-smile as he took it, blue eyes almost twinkling.

They sat across from each other awkwardly, neither coming up with a clever way to break the ice. Merlin's eyes kept glancing at the letter, but it appeared he wasn't going to continue reading it since she arrived. Gwen watched out of the corner of her eyes as his hand inched towards it, like he was protective of the parchment. Minutes ticked by, and the boy was still looking down, glancing at it every half a minute.

"Do you . . . would you like to keep reading?" she gestured to the paper, and he jumped again.

"Oh, no! Um . . . "

"It's just that—well I saw—I mean, you were reading it when I came in. And now you're not." He shrugged, and she couldn't help but continue. "And you keep looking at it, like you'd—or at least you'd _want_ to keep reading, if I hadn't come."

"It's from my mother," he said, glancing at her with a sheepish smile.

"Oh?" she said, eyebrows raised. Silently wondering what was wrong with this Merlin.

"Yeah, but it's not to me, you see," he says, finally picking the paper up and showing her the heading. _Dear Gaius . . ._

"Isn't Gaius . . . " she frowned, and he nodded.

"A professor at the school, yes. I wasn't to open it, but I couldn't help myself. I knew—well—" he cut off, biting his lower lip.

"Is it about you?" Gwen guessed, and his eyes widened in surprise. But then Merlin nodded, sighing and throwing the paper back to the seat next to him. She didn't ask him anything further—thought better of it, really. This Merlin boy was strange enough as it was; who knew what about him could have prompted his mother to write to a _teacher _for it. Gwen shuddered to think, for the poor boy's sake.

On the other hand, Merlin was anything but sorry for what his mother had written Professor Gaius, if not a little embarrassed. _He needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide . . . _his mother meant well, but he didn't want to have his hand held. He wanted to prove to her, to the world, to _himself_, that Merlin could succeed on his own. She spoke of his talent; his ability that she knew could only be a gift if he was trained properly in using it. She mentioned the relief it was to discover her son was not mad—or that perhaps, she was—but that, according to his letter, he was _special_.

_It is every mother's fate to think her child is special, and yet I would give my life that __Merlin__ were not so._ He knew she would, given the chance. _My dear Gaius, I turn to you for I feel lost and alone and don't know who to trust . . ._That part almost had Merlin ashamed; Merlin, who'd never been anything but trouble and worry for his mother. He tried his hardest not to be so, tried his best to contain himself at school and not wreck the house in his carelessness. But there was little, it seemed, that could be done for Hunith's true worry—which was what exactly would become of her son.

At least he was away from her now, the boy thought gloomily. He sighed, turning his head to the window, and realizing the girl heard him when she shot him a concerned glance.

"Exciting, going to school, is it not?" she said in a cheery manner, probably trying to up his spirits. Little did she know it was exactly that thought that had him so down.

"'Course," he said half-heartedly.

"Know what house you want to be put in?" She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head, giving him a slight smile.

"Ravenclaw, or Gryffindor, perhaps," he said, shrugging. "You?"

"Not quite sure yet," she widened her brown eyes, smiling and shaking her head like she should know by now. Curls bounced as she did so.

"Well, that's good then," he said, and confusion washed over her face. "Not that—by any means, you shouldn't know, what house you want to be in, I mean. Or not should, but that it's completely fine to know—"

"Hey, you girls wanna move!" Came a voice from the opened door just before three boys came crashing into the compartment, one landing straight on top of Guinevere. A fourth one grinned widely as he looked in from the hallway. Merlin's hands tightened automatically into fists, the glass in the windows seeming suddenly quite fragile. He pushed the urge down as Gwen jumped to her feet, and the boy fell off her and straight to the floor.

"Must you knock into me _again_, Arthur Pendragon?!' she shouted, and the good natured wrestling suddenly ceased. All the boys turned, confused—all but one, who wore a sheepish grin. Merlin gave him a glance-over as the boy hesitatingly rose, hands up.

"She's not talking about _you_, is she?" said one with a dominant nose and black, mischievous eyes.

"Yes, I'm Arthur Pendragon," he said, sighing, then pointed a glare in Gwen's direction.

"Well, now I'm going to be put in detention the first day of school already for when we arm-wrestled!" said a curly-haired bloke, who was still on the floor of the compartment.

"No you're not," Arthur sighed, laughing with a slight smile. "Honestly, we'll just put it to rights by you giving me another go—I _know_ you cheated—"

"Excuse me, _what_ is going on," A slightly higher, much more authoritative voice stopped Arthur's mid-sentence. A pale girl with long dark hair had her arms crossed against the open door, glaring at the whole lot of them with grey-green eyes.

"Morgana," Arthur said, tensing up. "What do you mean—"

"I just found a boy who said someone _exactly _matching your description just _assaulted_ him," she said.

"If by assaulted, you mean gave a _wedgie_—" the black-eyed one guffawed, but one icy stare silenced him.

Arthur rolled his eyes, though Merlin could tell he looked uncomfortable as he said "What do you _want_, Morgana?"

"Leave," she eyed his posse of boys, who immediately shuffled out with their tails between their legs. Merlin gulped as her eyes turned to his briefly, but she simply shut the compartment door and sat on the bench next to Gwen—who immediately moved to give her more room. Arthur sat stiffly next to Merlin, face brooding.

"Arthur—"

"You're not my mother, you know," he said sharply, and Merlin was surprised to see the girl flinch.

"I can't stop you," she agreed eventually, looking at him with her chin down. "But I would _advise_ you not to turn into a pig-headed snob of a bully before we even get to the school." With a swish of her hair the girl left, leaving Merlin blinking. Then Arthur set his uneasy gaze on Gwen.

"How did you . . . "

"Your father employed mine a few years ago," she said, refusing to glance in his direction as she did so. "I recognized you from then, is all."

Arthur's face scrunched up hard, like he was really trying to think—not much good it'd do him, Merlin mused—then he gave up, shaking his head. "Don't remember you," he said, getting up and shutting the door behind him.

"You know him?" Merlin said to Gwen, a look of disgust passing over his face. "Man, that guy seems like a jerk."

"I don't really know him," Gwen shook her head, "I mean, I saw him a few times when my father took me with him to the Pendragon mansion, but we never spoke."

"Pendragon," Merlin repeated, brow furrowed. "That rings a slight bell. Where have I heard that name before?"

Gwen smiled good-naturedly. "It's on our acceptance letters," she said, and Merlin slapped his forehead.

"Oh yes! Of course, _Headmaster_ Pendragon," he nodded, remembering the title now. "WOAH. Wait a sec—that means—"

"Arthur is the Headmaster's son, yes," Gwen nodded, smile grim. "And it's clear he's _entirely_ aware of the fact."

"I should have realized right away. I just—well, I'm pretty new to all this," he admitted, grinning slightly.

She smiled back, good-naturedly again. "Muggle-born?" Merlin nodded, and her smile didn't falter. "I can relate. Well, not that I'm muggle-born—not that that's a bad thing to be, of course—my mum was a witch, but I don't really remember her. Ran off, or something. So I've been raised by my father, and he's the biggest muggle you'll ever meet. Only reason I know half of anything is because of my mum's relatives—they stopped by, every now and then, checked to see how my father was. Told me a bit about my mum, what she could do, who she was. So it wasn't nearly as much of a shock to get the letter, like I'm sure it was for you."

"Surprising, yes," Merlin affirmed, "Though I wouldn't call it a shock. I don't know—my mum knew some magical people, says her mother's brother went to school for it. So, I guess, I was slightly hoping—"

"Is that Gaius, do you think?" Gwen said, cocking her head. Merlin's eyes widened.

"Never thought of that. Now that I think on it, it's probably true." Merlin shook his head, first at the new revelation and then at Gwen. "You're pretty smart, you know that?"

A pretty blush colored her face and she looked down for just a moment. "Thank you, Merlin. You're very kind," she said, looking back up. Her dark curls bounced as she did so.

"I do hope we end up in the same house," Gwen wished aloud, suddenly excited.

"Probably not, just because we wish it," he said sadly, and she gave him a look.

"Well, you say you'd like to be in Ravenclaw. And I'm pretty smart, apparently. Who's to say we won't end up there together?" she shrugged, smiling again. Merlin couldn't help but smile back.

"Well, regardless," he decided, "we don't have to be in the same house to be friends." Gwen's smile suddenly twisted strangely, and he hurried to change his statement. "Not that you were—I mean, about us in the same house, and friends—and. I mean. Well . . . do you . . . want to be friends, Guinevere?" He was inwardly cringing at how awkwardly that all came out.

"My friends call me Gwen," she said, smile returning, and Merlin stopped the urge to let out a sigh of relief.

"Gwen, then?" he said with a raised brow, and she nodded.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?" an old woman interrupted them, a cart of the best-looking candy Merlin had possibly ever seen in front of her. He pushed down the aching in his throat and said a "No, thanks" right over Gwen's "Not hungry, thank you." They both smiled at each other as the lady shrugged and moved on.

"Poor," she shrugged.

"_Penniless_," he one-upped her, and she laughed.

The ride continued much the same way—for those two, at least. A few cars down, of course, Morgana was sitting in on an _entirely_ different kind of conversation than the like of Gwen and Merlin's playful chatter.

"I _swear_ the men tried to make it obvious," the young man across from her was seething to his companion. Who was none other than Morgause, in all her blonde, dark-eyed glory.

Morgana knew her. Else she wouldn't be privileged enough to sit here beside the fifth year and her boyfriend, both muttering dark things about dark people. One of which was none other than Uther Pendragon, her guardian.

"Can you be so sure, Cenred? " Margause raised a manicured eyebrow, eyes flitting toward Morgana. As if she would tell, if he said more on Uther.

"I swear it. My father was completely unarmed; asleep. His private possessions could have been stolen right under his nose! Yet, they woke the whole household up so we'd know. So we'd know he had his eyes on us—has his _men_ on us." Cenred was growling near the end, right at Morgana too. She raised her chin defiantly.

"Whatever your father has done, he must have deserved it," she said in what she hoped was a confident tone. Cenred's dark eyes stared into hers for a moment, and then he laughed good and long, like she'd just told the best joke. The smallest of smirks even curved Morgause's lips as well.

Finally Cenred ceased and stared at her once more. "Aye, that he did, young Morgana," he said in a serious tone.

Then they moved on to other, more trivial things—gossip, classes, food at the feast. At one point Cenred's hands started sliding up the older girl's knee, leaning so he was at the edge of his seat. Morgause batted his attentions away lazily before sighing and giving in.

"Morgana, maybe you should sit somewhere else for a while," Morgause smirked at her, and the first-year did not need to be told twice. The only problem, she realized as she slid the compartment door shut, was that there really wasn't anywhere else to go.

To Arthur, she supposed, though the girl doubted her adopted brother would be quite so warm and welcoming now that she'd embarrassed him in front of those boys he was trying so obviously to impress. Might have managed it, too, she mused, if not for his one fault—her.

And then the thought came to her quickly; the boy she'd just met, who'd been the victim of Arthur's antics, was just a car down. She made her way to where she'd found the poor boy—who looked closer to 8 than 12, really—showing undisguised relief when she found him.

"Hullo again," she said as she entered the compartment, and his blue eyes flashed to her. He simply nodded, and Morgana hesitantly sat down. "May I sit with you?"

He nodded again, dark curls fluttering slightly across his forehead. She smiled at him, and after a moment he returned it, the change in expression completely altering his face.

They sat in companionable silence, and Morgana was oddly comfortable in it. By the time it was time to change into their robes, another word had yet to be exchanged.

Light slowly faded and the scenery changed—great mountains rose up around the small ruby train, great forests populating the valleys. It was dark and blurry by the time strange, pinpricks of light shone—up ahead, and shimmering on water below it.

"Hogwarts," the young boy murmured, standing up so suddenly with his face to the window glass that Morgana jumped. A large smile cracked the solemn fortress that was his face again, and the boy turned to look at Morgana. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Mordred," he said, and she took it—trying not to marvel how small the hand was that she clutched.

"Morgana," she said, smiling softly. Then they both turned to watch as the great, black castle loomed closer and closer, carrying the destiny of more than one young witch or wizard in its ancient hands.


	2. In which Hope is a fickle thing

In which Hope's a fickle thing

It'd been a game. An idiotic one, at that, Arthur was only too proud to admit, but also some of the best fun he'd had since . . . well, he didn't know when.

Gwaine was the one with all the ideas. Leon deemed them insane or too insane, and Lancelot listened silently with apt interest before putting in a word or two. Then there was Arthur, who immediately settled in the role of taking all these opinions into account and deciding their best course of action. It was a boyish, completely flawed system, but it didn't seem to matter.

Especially when it came to the subject of deciding which man was better fit to be a Gryffindor.

It was their quest since Arthur first walked into the compartment, Gwaine waving his imaginary sword about and grinning viciously with twinkling black eyes. Leon rolling _his_ eyes, and Lancelot smiling good-naturedly or looking out the window. A few others just laughing along. Arthur walked in, gave Gwaine a disdainful, yet amused look, and sat down beside a slightly stunned Leon as if he owned the place. Well, maybe he didn't, but his father probably had some kind of influence over the Hogwarts Express, Arthur was sure.

The first competition was to see who could get in the first punch. Arthur failed in that only once, against Lancelot of all the boys. It impressed him a great deal—Arthur had not only grown up surrounded by magic, but also in an academy of high elite boys who, though too young to weaponize their magic really, almost all packed a quick upper-cut.

Of course that was also when he'd knocked into some annoying, frizzy-haired girl who later paid him back by telling off the big secret to his boys in a most insensitive manner. Arthur had been hoping to imply it every now and then, get one of them (likely Leon) to figure it out for themselves so Arthur could simply confirm their suspicions. Let friendship grow before getting it ripped away like he always did once people knew Arthur's last name. _Pendragon_. It even carried an important ring to it, he sometimes mused, on top of all the history and connections that people inevitably associated it with.

Arthur stepped off the train, Leon on his heels and the other two quickly following. Despite the strange way he'd gone about it, Arthur had successfully officiated himself three allies. A good portion of him felt like puffing out his chest, howling in triumph. The rest carried a needy hope that this all lasted-that he would at least have one of them in the same house to be with.

What if all of them were put in Gryffindor except him? That was what Arthur feared most as an old, white-cloaked man, standing out from the crowd of black-clad students, gave a shrill "First years!"

The boys hurried to follow, as the man didn't wait to see if he was heard. Soon the shortest of the out-pouring children followed the silent man away from the station and carriages that awaited the older students, directly to the black castle and the shimmering lake below it.

Arthur knew this part-had imagined the air would feel just like this, a crisp but gentle wind flowing off the surface of the lake. All manner of insects buzzing in the reedy brush, all manner of stars twinkling in their constellations. Stepping into a dank, worn boat with his friends, eyes reflecting the shimmering glow that the castle's windows let out into the autumn night as they rowed to shore.

There was only one slight discomfort. That is, it was a discomfort to him, sitting next to the dwarf of a boy he'd just given a wedgie not many hours previous. Morgana ignored his looks of protest as she scooted him over to make room for her and the kid, who ended up between them. How tests of bravery turned into "assaulting" the boy, as she put it, Arthur really could not recall-nor could he say who ended up the best fitting for Gryffindor, as the game evolved quickly into a free-for-all wrestling match that extended through three train cars.

But Arthur wasn't about to explain himself to her anyhow. Morgana had made it quite clear she wanted little to do with him for here on out, and he was getting more and more willing to oblige.

A stern woman by the name of Professor Annis greeted the posse of first years through the great doors of Hogwarts. Arthur grinned manically to his friends, taking in the smell of cold stone and ancient paint like it was a whole new kind of oxygen. The air of _Hogwarts_.

Somehow, more towards the front of the group, Gwen and Merlin ended up holding hands. Gwen wasn't sure who reached for the other first, only that one second she was shaking and the next her hand was wrapped tightly around long, cool fingers. They gave each other reassuring smiles, and though Gwen couldn't say much just yet about the odd boy that she'd befriended, he most definitely had the brightest, friendliest of smiles.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," the woman said, looking down at them all with little to no expression. Her intimidating gaze didn't linger, but it didn't need to. Any chattering or horseplay that occurred on the way up the grand stairs stopped here, in front of the Great Hall's Great Doors. At least, that was what Gwen imagined their name to be, if they had one. Large, intricately carved and thick as they were.

"In a few short moments these doors will open, and you will be sorted into Houses—Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Your house will be your family for the remainder of your schooling at Hogwarts. Behave, do well, and points will be awarded to them. Disobey rules, perform poorly, and you will lose points." One eyebrow raised with word "lose," and Gwen could swear she saw a boy gulp. "The house with the most points at the end of the year will receive the greatest honor—the House Cup. I will return when we are ready for you."

With a swoosh of her robes Professor Annis left them, creaking one of the great doors open just enough to slip through. Immediately, whispering echoed against the walls, each student voicing their worries and fears about the imminent test ahead.

"What kind of test is it?" Merlin whispered anxiously in her ear, and Gwen turned to him, surprised.

"You know about the houses, but you don't know how we're to be sorted?" She tucked her chin in, giving him an appraising look. His worried gaze turned sheepish, and the boy's cheeks flushed slightly.

"I—I . . . I don't really know anything about them. My mum just told me that she knew Gryffindors are supposed to be brave, but Ravenclaw was where the smart ones supposedly went, and, so I figured . . . " He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders.

"I wonder how she knew," Gwen mused, but then smiled at him. "Well, they're all supposed to be great in their own way. Hufflepuff is for the unselfish, loyal ones, Gryffindor for the brave, chivalrous ones, Slytherin for those ambitious and clever, and Ravenclaw for the wise and creative. It's all very vague, I know, and it's not as if a person couldn't have qualities from more than one house."

"Then how are students sorted?"

"Well, it's a hat," Gwen said, then laughed at the confusion that crossed his face. "One that can tell your deepest thoughts—has access to you character, your very soul maybe, once you put it on. And, judging from all that, it then—"

Gwen never ended up finishing her explanation of the Sorting Hat, for just in that moment the Great Doors burst open, a boy being dragged out of the Great Hall by two very different old men. One was a bony, half-starved looking fellow, and the other was tall, built and professional in an official-looking uniform.

The one characteristic Gwen could make of the student dragged between them, however, was just paralyzing, consuming fear.

"What are you doing?" she heard a voice saying to her right, a high, commanding voice that was quite familiar. The girl called Morgana ran straight to them, shock and anger clear on her face.

"Move aside, little girl," the tall one said in a demeaning tone, but Morgana did not move.

"What has he done to break the rules?" she demanded, folding her arms. Meanwhile the children behind her stared in shock at, first, the girl's audacity, and second, her clear disregard for self-preservation. Gwen could only imagine these men were acting on some authority—likely _Pendragon_ authority—to be dragging this student out like they were.

"Morgana, don't be stupid," the Pendragon boy emerged from the crowd, tugging at her robes. She threw him a glare in return, shrugging him off.

"Morgana Pendragon?" the tall one said, and she nodded once. "Well, Mistress Pendragon, I am Aredian. And your father has asked me to attend the first part of this term, to ensure no mudbloods have weaseled themselves into the school under his nose." He then made a sweep of the first-years with his eyes, as if he could tell just on sight. Gwen felt a cold chill run down her spine. "If you want to question the Headmaster, I suggest you make an appointment." He gave a short laugh, then shoved past Morgana, who lost her balance and fell.

Arthur helped her up—or at least tried, Gwen amended—and looked down, his face a mask. Morgana's on the contrast, was one of confusion.

"Muggle-borns aren't allowed at Hogwarts?" a small boy said the second the men had pulled the sniffling student out of earshot. "That can't be right."

"It is," a dark-haired girl replied just next to him, shaking her head. "Hasn't anyone noticed how small of a group we are?"

Merlin, who this whole time had been trying not to do something as conspicuous as shake like an animal or lose his scant lunch, looked around like everybody else, not sure. There could not be more than 30 of them. But was that small? He had no clue, and by Gwen's face she probably didn't either.

"That's the way things are," Arthur said, and his look dared someone to argue. "If my father put the rule into place, there must be a good reason for it."

"Oh, because your father is _always _right?" the boy muttered.

"He's not Headmaster for nothing." Arthur displayed a horribly slappable smirk, and Merlin in that moment had only one word for the boy. _Prat._ "Morris, is it? Isn't your family the same that professes in sheep-herding? Oh, no, wait—that's the wrong animal. _Pigs_, wasn't it?"

The boy's face turned an unlikely shade of pig-pink, Merlin couldn't help but thinking. But his insides were set to boil at how pleased Arthur looked at Morris' discomfort. "Don't get me wrong. That pork-dinner you sent my father instead of the payment due to him was de_licious—"_

"That's enough, my friend." Merlin couldn't bear it any longer, for the boy's sake. Arthur's baby-ish, blue eyes flicked to his, smirk faltering.

"And what's your name?" he recovered, hands on hips.

"I'm Merlin." Who was inwardly cursing at bringing attention to himself, given the knowledge just brought to light. That he shouldn't even _be_ here.

"Well, _Mer_lin, I think I'll decide when enough's enough, not you."

"You've insulted him enough," Merlin argued, and the golden boy raised his eyebrows.

"Maybe. But I don't believe I've had a go at _you _yet. Tell me _Mer_lin, did you get punished for being a naughty boy too often, or did your ears just grow in that way?" Boys who'd been with him in the train snickered, and Arthur looked encouraged by it. Meanwhile Merlin tried to stand resolutely and not give into the ounce of hurt that fluttered near his heart.

"I believe I saw you in the train already; it was with that frizzy-haired girl. Or was that a skinny, ugly looking girl that looked just like you?" The boys outright guffawed, and Merlin glared at Arthur's easy smirk.

"Arthur . . . " Morgana gave him a patronizing shake of her head, but the boy hardly glanced in her direction. The whole crowd of first years watched as Arthur approached Merlin.

"I don't believe we've been really introduced, though. And yet you call me your friend?"

"My mistake," Merlin replied shortly. "I'd never be friends with someone who was such an ass."

A wave of "ooohs" rounded through the crowd, and Arthur's smirk was turning into something more resembling a grimace.

"Nor I, with someone so pathetically stupid," he spat, nose crinkled like he was smelling something bad. "Can't hope for Ravenclaw then, I suppose? Too bad; though I guess Hufflepuff just _might_ take you, if you clip those dogged ears back."

Then Merlin knew he was blushing; he could feel heat spread to his cheeks, body betraying him. But its reaction didn't stop there; something purred alive, stirring and stretching inside him. Magic. Begging to be released, to teach this boy a lesson. And though he knew not one spell to usher the magic through the wand in his robes, Merlin didn't _need_ to know. He could just feel, and then do.

"You really should just stop now," he warned the golden boy, who outright laughed.

"Or what? Be my guest," he goaded, spreading his hands wide. "Come on. Come oooooon."

"Excuse me," a stern voice jolted the students from their entertainment. She gave the two boys a pointed look, who both immediately turned and looked away from each other. "We are ready for you," she told them all, and with that the big doors opened, a bright glow pouring from the Great Hall beyond.

Even as Merlin marveled and stared at the enchanted ceiling above, the floating candles around, the great crackling hearths, and rows upon rows of black-clad students, he reprimanded himself for it. This place, this strange Hogwarts, was just an idea to him not hours ago. An idea that centered around belonging and succeeding. What a foolish, silly kind of hope he'd allowed himself to feel.

Why had he gotten the acceptance letter, Merlin wondered, if Muggle-borns were no longer allowed into Hogwarts? Gwen smiled worriedly at him as they filtered into the Hall, taking his hand again and squeezing it reassuringly. But Merlin wasn't reassured. He was scared out of his wits, and wondered if now would be the time to flee from the castle and somehow contact his mum—tell her it hadn't worked out, there'd been a mistake in mailing or something.

Morgana, on the other hand, was angry. Not that she really knew whether Uther would do something like this, as he didn't share much about his career in the summers—which was when Arthur and Morgana saw him. Though her caretaker voiced his opinions on many matters, namely how muggle-borns were becomingly less and less magical and were seemingly a drain on the magical world, she knew many muggle-born witches and wizards in the short time she'd lived. One of them, primarily, was her very own nanny.

How as Headmaster he'd been able to put such a drastic change into action, Morgana couldn't imagine. She stared up at him as the crowd moved her into the Great Hall and up the tables to where Headmaster Pendragon sat, looking serenely down at them all. The first-years crowded in front of the steps leading to the staff table, eyes all pressing on the ominous object waiting for them on a stool.

It was a mangled-looking thing, she thought, for such a great purpose as it had. What house she wished to be put in? Now that was a question Morgana did not like to dwell on too much. Hufflepuff seemed like suicide; Ravenclaw seemed full of know-it-alls. Gryffindor was full of stuck-up idiots, and Slytherin was just plain mean.

These observations were mostly based off Morgause's comments on each of them—though her thoughts on Slytherin were entirely her own. It was to be expected, of course, that Morgause would bash on all of the Houses but her own, which she told Morgana was where anyone worth knowing was put. But the girl was no fool—she could see what kind of people Slytherins were. Her own father she could remember never liked the lot of them, calling them slimy, slippery folk not unlike their symbol, the snake.

Then again, he was Gryffindor, just like Uther—who gave her the tiniest of glances as the hat suddenly burst into song, a glance that held no warmth or meaning. Except perhaps that he was aware of her and would be watching. For what? Morgana wondered, but still vowed to not look at _him_ again.

_Oh I know what you're all thinking,_

_When you lay eyes on me._

_But don't judge in a hurry,_

_By the rips and tears you see._

_I'm the Sorting Hat, old faithful,_

_Prepared for every year,_

_When children come to put me on,_

_And start their studies here._

_Yes it's good old Hoggy Hogwarts,_

_The place we love the best,_

_With four founders and four houses,_

_Each no better than the rest._

_For Ravenclaw the quick of mind,_

_For Hufflepuff the loyal and kind._

_For Slytherin the cunning, ambitious part_

_For Gryffindor the brave of heart._

_You may think you know you well—_

_I'll see what you may not!_

_The inner workings of your mind,_

_Desires your heart has wrought._

_So for this Sorting Ceremony,_

_Remember what I've said._

_You just might be surprised_

_When you place me on your head._

The croaky old voice of the Sorting Hat, that seemed to speak through a rip in its middle, finished singing and Professor Annis opened a large scroll, her eyes briefly flickering to the crowd of first years.

"Ander, Kara!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

And thus the Sorting began.

Kara was followed by a girl named Lamia, who sorted into Slytherin. Then Lancelot, who went to Gryffindor, and another girl—Mithian, the dark-haired girl—into Ravenclaw again.

Then Merlin, the boy who Arthur had been provoking, was called up and even Morgana bit back a smile when he tripped on the stool and the Sorting Hat fell off. Professor Annis picked it up, glaring at him, and even Uther's face twitched—with amusement or annoyance, it was unclear.

His Sorting was notable only because it took forever. Morgana's feet were cramping by the time the boy, now shaking, was sorted.

"SLYTHERIN!"

A little odd, she couldn't help but think, based off how _un_-mean the boy seemed to be. Then again, the hat said it knew their heads better than they did. In honesty, Morgana didn't know whether this information more worried her or reassured her.

A girl named Forridel, sorted into Gryffindor, stepped off the stool when it was time. "Pendragon, Arthur!" Morgana couldn't see any physical change in Uther, but she could see the gaze of his intensity on Arthur's shoulders. It looked almost as if Arthur could feel it as well.

He stepped onto the stool, placed the hat on his head, and the second it touched his golden crown of hair the hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!"

The feeling of disappointment that washed over her was alien. Why was she upset, when Arthur so clearly pleased Uther? Uther, who clapped for the first time in the ceremony as Arthur—grinning ear-to-ear—rushed to sit in the Gryffindor table.

Maybe it was because she had little to no hope that she would ever please her caretaker in that way. Maybe she had an inkling, even before placing the hat on her head, what she would hear.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Gwen was gulping and gulping, trying to dislodge the fear in her throat. Strange, how the body made an emotion so tangible and real. But she had no doubts the second after she heard which house she was in, she'd be relieved. Really. Even if it was something horrid like Slytherin—at least Merlin was there.

Oh, poor Merlin, she couldn't help but silently croon. Merlin, who somehow slipped through the system and got his letter of acceptance despite the rule against Muggle-borns, and now was in the worst—the absolute _worst_—house when it came to blood. What he was feeling that moment, Gwen couldn't imagine. Didn't want to understand.

When her name was called, she actually reprimanded herself for being so selfish, worrying about her petty problems. It was an idle practice she found her mind indulging in much too often. When the Sorting Hat fell over her eyes and muted out the Great Hall ever-so-slightly, Gwen chanted, _Don't care, don't care, don't care_, in her head.

_But don't you? _She practically jumped when she heard the voice, though it was very recognizable. _Don't you mind, where you're sorted?_

_No, anywhere's good, _she thought, more to herself than it. _Even Slytherin. It doesn't matter._

_Interesting, _it purred, and her mind suddenly felt like it was being poked. Prodded, ever so slightly. _Brave. Loyal. Selfless, smart, crafty...hmmm._

_Ah, but then. Yes. Very well. _The voice seemed pretty conclusive, and last-second Gwen couldn't help but stop it.

_What are you going to say?_

_I'm going to say Hufflepuff, I think._

_Oh._

_Didn't care, didn't you?_

_I don't. _Gwen bit her lip, trying to make sure she meant the words. _Mightn't you put me with Merlin? He's by himself in . . . _

_Slytherin. Oh, yes, so selfless, aren't we? You would not do well in Slytherin, though, I think. Help Merlin—he will need it—but do it despite your Houses. I have faith in you, Gwen._

_Alright . . . thank you._

"HUFFLEPUFF!"


	3. In which Beginnings begin

In which Beginnings begin

If it was possible to burst with joy and deflate with relief simultaneously, Arthur managed to now as he sat next to his new mates under the banners of red and gold. The last first year, William Yorkin, was sorted into Ravenclaw and his father rose to a candle-lit pedestal, eying the tables silently. He rose his hands and the students immediately quieted, waiting.

"Welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Uther Pendragon, and I am the Headmaster of this school; in accordance with that duty, I look for the best interests of this school as a whole and for each student individually. You all have been sorted, and it is in _your_ best interest to align yourself with your House and embody its values.

"Mr. Cedric, our caretaker, would ask me to remind you that The Forbidden Forest is off-limits to all students—the third floor corridor is also out of bounds this year, to those who do not wish for immediate expulsion. Study hard, work diligently, and you will end the year bringing pride to your Houses. Thank you."

The heavy gaze and commanding voice of Headmaster Pendragon may have been unsurprising to Arthur, but he could tell the other first years around him were immediately intimidated by such a display of power. His father's words were neat and careful, but that did not matter; his steel eyes cut through the room in such a manner that left every recipient cold and apprehended. Just because Arthur was used to it, didn't mean he'd ever stop feeling that.

The somber mood didn't last long, luckily; with a clap of Uther's hands there was food on the once empty golden platters, materialized it seemed out of thin air.

"Your father's a bit of a solemn bloke," Gwaine said, grinning for a moment before Leon elbowed him in the ribs. Arthur shrugged, for once not wishing to joke back. Not about his father, at least.

"You know, looks like our results for the Gryffindor test were conclusive," Leon said, changing the topic. Lancelot, sitting across from him and Arthur, raised an eyebrow. "Well, neither of us won. So we must be all equally fit!"

"Hah," Arthur snorted, "I wouldn't go that far."

"Got another challenge for us, Arthur?" Gwaine's dark eye glittered. "Bet I can guess it: who's likely the only who can get caught in the third floor corridor and_ not_ get expelled?" And so playful chatter started up and only paused between mouthfuls—sometimes not even then. Arthur didn't think it could possibly go better than this.

_Ahh, Emrys. I've wondered when I was to be placed upon your head. Brave. Selfless. Intelligent. Ambitious. Fiercely Loyal. Cunning. The EMRYS.  
You could do great things, you know. You will do them. And the house that will help you on the way . . . Slytherin, I think._

_Slytherin?_

_You know nothing yet of true power. Of true greatness. Yet you already come, here at Hogwarts, seeking out success. Wanting to prove to the world, that you are not nothing. And you aren't, Emrys._

_I do want to succeed . . . but—_

_Stop your quivering. Slytherin is the answer, Emrys. The answer to the question you have yet to ask._

_. . . Where do I belong._

_Yes. Slytherin is the answer._

_Wait. Give me a moment. I just—just need to think about this. What about Ravenclaw? What about—_

_Ravenclaw will do nothing for you. In that house you will shamble idly by, never reaching your true potential. Knowledge is not all that you seek I think, Emrys. _

_Or Gryffindor? Or Hufflepuff?_

_Gryffindor would hardly suit you well—though Hufflepuff would. But Slytherin, Emrys, _Slytherin is the answer_. Do not reject it simply in FEAR of—_

_I don't fear it. I . . . I don't understand it._

_Good. Then learn of it, and succeed in it. You will succeed. _

"SLYTHERIN!"

. . .

"Merlin. _Merlin—_

You have a destiny, Merlin. You will find it there_._"

. . .

Merlin woke, slightly damp and fully shaking. Only to realize he was making the bed-curtains flap around him wildly, like rolling waves and flailing arms. He was deep in the earth, past the dungeons of Hogwarts, under the Black Lake. Tangled in dark green covers and pale white sheets.

No, it wasn't just a bad dream, yes, he was actually in Slytherin. And, assumedly, at any given time he wouldn't even be Slytherin; he'd be expelled. It was the night of the Sorting Ceremony, or at least the very-early-morning-after, and Merlin was quite sure he would not make it past the end of the week just out of sheer fear. And what was more alarming: he was possibly going insane. That really could be the only way Merlin heard things like what he just did—"You have a destiny, Merlin. You will find it there_._"

He'd never heard the voice before arriving at Hogwarts, which was at least a slightly encouraging thought, but he couldn't just pin this all on the school being magical. Merlin was almost positive no one else was hearing "Merlin, _Merlin_," in their ear all evening and into the night. He would have been too queasy to eat the amazing feast—which appeared, to the first years' delight, out of nowhere on the tables—_without_ an ominous voice piercing into his skull. It seemed to echo down to him, like a call from the heavens. Except angels probably wouldn't sound so creepy.

Regardless, it was making for a very unrestful night. A night perfect for thinking, actually, if he _wanted_ to think about everything that'd happened. He most certainly did not.

And of course Gwen wouldn't be in the same house as him. Merlin's hopes were at least efficiently dashed in that regard around the same time his own hopes were, concerning his house—when the Hat roared out "SLYTHERIN!"

Merlin was aspiring for better, for success. He would admit it without hesitation. But where was the glory, the honor in succeeding in Slytherin? In his name coming to mean something, but only for Slytherin? A small, annoying voice in Merlin's head whispered that perhaps it wasn't his destiny to get all the glory, the credit in what he did. If so, however, the rest of him reasoned back, what was the point?

A question he really had yet to answer so far tonight.

He'd at least managed the letter from his mum to look mostly untouched. In a stroke of genius he'd softened the wax that kept the letter closed on the communal stove in his dormitory, resealing it by pushing the pliable stuff with his fingers. Presentable enough, by any rights—he thought about using magic, but this would have to do. With his luck, his magic would turn the paper bright pink or even light it on fire. The other boys eyed him curiously, but they didn't say anything. Probably because they disliked him already.

Earlier, along the trip down to the Slytherin corridors, a small, pitiful looking girl named Lamia turned out to be not so pitiful; she was more like horrible. Tripping in front of him, claiming he was pushing her around. The prefect stopped the group to reprimand him twice; the third time the older boy herded her to the front protectively, warning Merlin if he harassed her one more time he'd be reported to the Head of their House.

So now he was a jerk to all his classmates. All except the girl Morgana, who saw the last time Lamia tripped that Merlin had nothing to do with it. She gave him a sympathetic glance after the prefect yelled at him, which was odd considering the fight he and her brother had. Then again, the two seemed quite different than one another—not one feature could identify them as siblings, really.

Morgana was hoping that would work to her advantage the next morning in the Great Hall. Older kids from her house were muttering and casting rude looks over their shoulders at a bunch of bumbling idiotic first-years, with Arthur at their head. They must have heard the connection between the two—Morgana did have the same last _name_ as him, after all—but it appeared, so far at least, that no one from Slytherin was shunning her for her unavoidable family connections.

Cenred, who was one of the prefects, told the first years thus as they were handed their class schedules: "Herbology and History of Magic and with Ravenclaw, Transfiguration and Potions with Gryffindor, and Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts with Hufflepuff. Don't wander and you won't get lost. Mind you—the staircases like to change. Just stick to the group, and you'll be fine."

It was almost—_almost_—funny how little Cenred looked like he cared about whether the first years would be "fine" or not. The only thing, of course, that Morgana had seen Cenred show interest in so far was getting alone with Morgause, and that was unlikely to change. She walked next to Eira, who was one of the girls she shared a dormitory with. Enmyria and Lamia were the others— Enmyria, who Morgana was already beginning to dislike, and Lamia, the one that got the Merlin boy in trouble.

Why the girl would pick _him_ of all people to agitate, Morgana couldn't understand. But, regardless, Cenred was unusually _prefect_-ish in that instance, though he was defending the wrong person. As they made their way up to the Slytherin first years' first class, Charms, the girl kept shooting the back of Merlin's head an ugly glare.

"Welcome, students; I am Professor Grettir," a voice said, coming from behind the desk as she took a seat. An extremely short, portly man walked from behind it, grinning at them all. His robes fluttered as, with a quick spell from his wand, the little man levitated onto the desk. His grin grew wider as he landed, hands on hips as the Hufflepuff students clapped politely. Morgana started to as well, only to be glared at by a few from her own house.

Oh, right, she conceded almost bitterly, this is Slytherin. Which meant, apparently, you were a disgrace to your House if you showed any sort of courtesy or civility. Wonderful.

"Everyone, please take out your textbook. In your first year of Charms," the man said, mostly speaking to the Hufflepuff students, "we will be covering the fundamentals , the standard spells that you will use for the remainder of your lives. First off is levitation—the first three weeks we'll spend time on the theory, and then start on the actual enchantment. Please turn to page 3 . . . "

Gwen was quite sure the rest of her classes would be dull in comparison to Charms. Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, was already the book she'd most opened upon buying her second-hand textbooks, and Professor Grettir turned out to be a kind, if somewhat strange teacher.

What possibly might be the best part of the class, however, was the fact that Merlin was just a desk away. They both sat in the middle, so they were still technically within the line of the unspoken House boundaries, but close enough to brush elbows or exchange looks or look over a section of the text together for partner reading.

Hufflepuff was not so bad. Gwen had never liked heights, so it was to her relief that the Hufflepuff Commons was not, in fact, one of the towering spires shooting out of the castle. She made friends with a girl named Sefa right off the start, one of the girls in her dormitory. But the other three were just as friendly, really, and she truly couldn't believe her luck. Or believe Merlin's horrible luck.

He talked with her after class, smiling and cheerful, but obviously tired.

"What is your Common Room like?" he asked, smiling at her.

"I dunno," Gwen shrugged, "nice, I guess. Lots of comfy couches and tables for studying. Two big fireplaces, on either side of it, and everything decked out in yellow and ebony." She nudged him with her shoulder, hitting his arm playfully. "How about yours? Slytherin's quarters sound so mysterious."

"Under the lake, yeah," Merlin smiled a little. "Mostly it's just a lot of stone and fancy furniture. And, of course, silver and green. One thing I found cool though: we've got windows, but they're underwater—I can see into the lake from—" His voice cut sharply off. Gwen frowned at him, then noticed the glares of a few other boys and girls from his House. They were leaving, off to wherever Slytherin first years had class next, and obviously displeased he was affiliating with a Hufflepuff.

"Off you go," she pushed him lightly, hoping he could tell she was in no way offended. He cast a sorry glance her way and hurried to follow, his gangly limbs scrambling to catch up.

Merlin slowed down once he reached them in the next corridor, staying at the back of the group. Silently hoping to be found out and sent home, right now. If he couldn't even have a friend, there didn't seem a point, anyway. Merlin knew this was melodramatic—there were his studies, cultivating his talents, making himself a _future. _But, looking in a gilded mirror on one of the walls they walked by, it was hard to look at himself and believe that was still possible.

A woman passed by the group as the first years were about to turn a corner, eyes widening. "Oh, are you the Slytherin first years," she said, smiling slightly at them as she clearly knew the answer. "You will enjoy it. Slytherin was my house as well. Oh! And Morgana, lovely to see you as well," she flicked a hand to the girl, who smiled hesitantly. "Have fun on your first day, darlings!"

Right as she sauntered past the last of them, the woman stiffened; Merlin saw her eyes go wide as they set upon the gilded mirror. Then she kept walking, much more briskly, and rounded the corner out of sight. Curious, he lagged behind his classmates and looked in the glass again. Just himself, blue eyes staring back at him listlessly. Shrugging, Merlin left it and caught up—they were heading to Herbology, with the Ravenclaws.

"Who was that lady?" he whispered to Morgana, who jumped in front of him and almost knocked over an untasteful plant in the greenhouse. She gave him a glare, probably wondering what sign she'd given to think he could talk to her. She hadn't, but Merlin couldn't help but ask anyway, curiosity often overcoming any kind of hesitation.

"Madame Helen," she said, poising a dark eyebrow at him.

"She's not a teacher?"

"No, she's a friend of my . . . " the girl suddenly looked at him suspiciously. "Why do you ask?"

But it was then that Professor Grunhilda introduced herself to the class and asked them to take out their dragon-hide gloves. Morgana made a point to move away from Merlin, joining some of the Slytherin girls for the rest of the lesson on wiggentrees.

He went down to his quarters before lunch, discarding the _Standard Book of Spells_, his dragonhide gloves, and _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_, in exchange for _Magical Drafts and Potions_ and The _Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_. He still had the letter to Professor Gaius tucked into the pocket in his robes, who Hunith wanted Merlin to give the letter to "when you see him." First off, then, right before class? After class, when nobody else would notice? Happenchance as they both passed each other in the halls?

The one thing his mum didn't mention in it was the fact he was muggle-born. Which was good, if Gaius didn't know, and if _anyone_ else got their hands on the letter, but Merlin was getting queasy anyways. Gaius probably knew already that he was a "mudblood" as that intimidating man had said the night before. So, as soon as he went into the man's classroom and handed him the letter, he would be condemning himself.

Not handing over the letter, but burning it, sounded more and more intelligent the more he thought about it. The stove was burning lowly still, the perfect chance to destroy any evidence he was Hunith's son. Except, of course, the overlooked record that allowed Merlin to get into Hogwarts in the first place. He could only hope Gaius wouldn't notice his last name, or recognize his mother in him—they had the same dark hair and blue eyes, but he must have gotten enough from his long-gone father to dilute any traits from her.

Merlin stepped to the furnace, fingering the thick paper and biting his lip. He opened the latch for putting in the wood, but stopped himself just before tossing it in.

It lay pressed against his chest through lunch and Defense Against the Dark Arts—who was taught not by Gaius, but Professor Alator. He was an older, balded man with a stern gaze and an extreme distaste for children, regardless of being Slytherin or the other House, Hufflepuff, it seemed.

He sat near Gwen though, who was a comforting presence. When he was with her, Merlin felt—well, normal. Not that he had a c_rush_ on her or anything . . . she was just, well, great.

The potions classroom was lower in the school, in the dungeons as it were. Merlin just entered the doorway when the menace Arthur barreled in, knocking him purposefully into the doorframe. He righted himself, glaring when he noticed Arthur watching him with a smirk. Merlin decided the best course of action would have to be ignoring the fellow completely—which he'd never been exactly great at, by any means.

Still, Merlin went to the front desks, as far as possible from where Arthur and his pack of goons sat. An old, white-haired man was sitting with his mouth pursed at the desk, ignoring them all as he studied some bit of parchment with a magnifying glass. The bell tolled a minute or two after, and the man looked up at them all with a raised eyebrow.

"You are in Potions class now—there will be little use of your wands here, so please put it away, Mister Pendragon." Gryffindors and Slytherins alike craned their heads toward the back of the room, where Arthur was presumably doing just that. The old man had an interesting kind of smirk, a kind if curt expression. Merlin kept his eyes forward, silently willing _this_ man to be Gaius. Please, please, _please_.

"I am Professor Gaius," the man said, and Merlin resisted the urge to sag in relief and disbelief. "The potions kit you were instructed to bring will be your aide in my class; your only means of concocting the brews you will need to know by the end of the year to pass your exams. So," he turned to the blackboard behind him and began to write, "take them out, please."

The rest of the period Professor Gaius spent going over each item (which he wrote on the board) in the kit and their uses. Various ingredients, like spine of lionfish and sticklewort, and different-sized phials and stirring sticks. It was a rather boring subject matter, but as their teacher spoke on Merlin felt more and more that perhaps he could trust this man. Perhaps he could.

After class Merlin hung back, indecision directing his feet a hesitant dance from his desk, down through the aisles, and back. The professor didn't seem to notice—in fact, he disappeared into another room soon after, and before he knew what he was doing Merlin ran to follow.

He found the man on a ladder amidst shelves upon shelves of corked, jarred ingredients—some of which looked back at him as he stood at the threshold. Merlin cleared his throat hesitantly, and when the man's back still did not turn, he wondered if this was a sign. That he should leave while he still could.

"Professor Gaius?"

In the second that passed, a number of things happened. The old man startled, head whipping to look at Merlin, hands letting go of the ladder wrung, and feet tilting. Merlin's magic awakened, hungry to _do _something after such a fast without it.

Time froze. Just long enough that Merlin could rush to the man's aid, hands at his old, hunched back. And then the second finally ended, and another began: in which, Gaus fell just a little farther and Merlin was there to steady him. His teacher's one eyebrow climbed impossibly higher, eyes wide at Merlin as he steadied himself.

"Was that—did you just use magic, boy?" he said in his somber tone, staring at Merlin.

Who, for once, didn't have a ready answer. "No. I mean—yes, or, kind of, maybe, or . . . yes."

"Without your wand?" He inquired, climbing down the ladder and turning to Merlin fully with an unreadable expression. Merlin nodded silently, suddenly a bit wary of this man.

"Well then. Hmm. Well, what is it?" the professor asked. "What did you come back here for?"

"Oh! Yeah," Merlin's hand seemed to pull the letter out of his robes all on its own. Professor Gaius gave him another inquisitive stare before taking the letter and leaving the storage room. He went to his desk, Merlin hesitantly following, watching as the old man used his magnifying glass to read the letter before him. His eyes glanced up at Merlin again every now and then as he read.

"You're Hunith's child?" he looked Merlin up and over as he sat the parchment down. Merlin nodded. "Seems I've just had a display of what your mother was concerned about," he said, pursing his lips. "I'm Gaius—as you well know, though I think formalities between you and I are unnecessary outside of class. Your mother was like family to me, Merlin," he stood, crossing to the boy. "I will help you in any way I can."

"How did you know each other?" Merlin asked, curiosity getting the better of him again.

"Unimportant," Gaius waved it off. "What is important, however, is what you and your mother seemed to have been uninformed of—muggle-borns have been banned from Hogwarts. For six years, ever since Uther became Headmaster."

"Yes, well, I know now," Merlin said with a rueful smile.

"I don't know how your family backround was overlooked," Gaius shook his head. "Strange. Well, you'd better head off—dinner I heard is going to be black pudding."

"But you—you won't say anything or, er . . . "Merlin trailed off, both horribly afraid and hopeful all at once.

"No, no, nothing," Gaius conceded, with a nod. Merlin smiled, relieved and turned on his heel to his desk. As he gathered his things and headed for the door, Gaius added: "Though, Merlin, I should say—thank you."

**A/N: Thanks for any and all feedback! Expect a chapter about every other week, if you're following along. Excited that the plot can actually start moving along soon **


	4. In which Tension reaches a boiling point

In which Tension reaches a boiling point

Morgana pushed a black, jelly-ish substance around on her plate, biting her inner cheek thoughtfully. She'd received a note from a prefect when she walked into the Great Hall, which read simply:

_Morgana, come see me at the end of this week—a professor will take you from the Entrance Hall, at 7:00 on Saturday, and lead you to my office. I want to hear about your week. Uther_

Day One, and Hogwarts was brilliant. It was amazing, the difference it made attending a strict all-girls' school most of her life and learning normal-girl things, compared to this. She hadn't exactly made many friends so far—Morgause, who she sat next to, didn't count; they'd known each other for years—and her classes weren't very interesting, and yet. And yet she felt freer than she ever had in her life.

There was the girls' school, and when there wasn't that there was Nanny, and on the off-chance there wasn't Nanny, then there was Uther. So it had been, for half her existence. Ever since her father died, killed just as he and Uther began to dominate in the dragon trade. The memories of her life with him felt like the precious blanket she'd stubbornly left behind before school; warm and thin, faded and fragile.

Uther did his best when it came to Morgana, she knew that. But the _way_ he went about caring for her—well, with this clear message that Uther would likely be checking up on her weekly, Morgana could only imagine he did not plan on treating her like any other student at Hogwarts. Which wasn't a surprise, but a disappointing confirmation.

"Hullo? _Excuse me?_" Morgana's eyes snapped up, blinking in dazed confusion at an older boy's impatient face. "Can you pass the roast potatoes?" She stared dimly at him a moment, then flushed when she noticed the dish to the right of her plate.

"Sorry," she said, passing it to him across the table quickly. He shrugged, giving her a once-over.

"You're one of the Pendragons, right?" he cocked a thick eyebrow, his smile friendly and strange all at once.

"Morgana," she answered, returning the smile hesitantly. "Uther is my guardian."

"_Guardian_, you say," he nodded thoughtfully. "So you're not related by blood?" She shook her head, and his smile looked the smallest amount more genuine. "And in Slytherin."

"Yes," she said, though that was obvious. "I don't know why. My father wasn't."

"Doesn't always mean anything," he shrugged, still half-smiling. "You might yet turn out half-decent." She let out a slight laugh, unsure what to make of the boy. "I'm Alvarr, by the way. Third year. If you ever need anything, I'm the one to ask." He gave her that strange grin, and for the rest of the meal—during which she ate quickly, the sooner to finish and not be under his gaze—he cast her furtive glances, almost like he was inspecting her. Or at the least, the way she ate her food, Morgana mused.

The second night was much like the first. Enmyria said nothing to no one, flouncing onto her bed robes, ties, shoes and all before passing out. Lamia glared at Morgana when they stepped simultaneously to move past the other. Eira chatted a little, then wrote in her journal.

Morgana eventually took to flipping through her _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_, by Emeric Switch, before going to sleep. She woke with her arms curled around it, cradling the pages like a pillow, when Eira lightly nudged her arm the next morning.

At breakfast she almost choked into her pumpkin juice—Madame Helen was laughing like a fool, her tooth gap more evident than ever, to none other than Headmaster Pendragon. She sat next to him, sipping from her goblet and wearing the brightest of smiles.

_What was going on. _Morgana knew her—the woman had visited Uther on occasion, likely trying to catch his attention and dip into the Pendragon fortune. But never, not once in Morgana's relatively short life with Uther, had the woman so much as glanced her way without glaring. To be fair, it was really the girl's fault; she'd had an unhealthy fascination for toads and the screams they'd elicit from a few choice witches when she was younger. It was that reputation that had her nanny checking her suitcases not once, or twice, but four times before they were loaded onto the train.

She stuck a toad down the woman's bosom the first time they met. Never did she think, after that fault, she'd hear the woman say "Lovely to see you" upon passing. And then there was the fact that surely not Madame Helen, the stupid, flighty woman she was, could ever be in Slytherin. Only Uther, for some unbidden reason, seemed to be fooled by her lackluster attempts at charm. Morgana did not know the woman's house, but _Slytherin_ . . .

Merlin noticed. The odd boy that sat at the Slytherin table a few places from her now, chewing on his scrambled eggs thoughtfully. He couldn't know Madame Helen; he couldn't know how strange she was acting the day before. But somehow, he noticed. Morgana was almost annoyed at how much he intruded into her thoughts so far: first facing Arthur's ridicule, then ending up the victim of Lamia's vices, now strangely perceptive to Madame Helen's change in character. The boy was everywhere.

Though, now, he sat alone. She contemplated moving next to him, but to what end? He didn't seem like one capable of friends—the kind of person with too much smart filling up their brain to make room for friendship. Plus she had little to nothing for starting a conversation. Morgana finished her own eggs without glancing at him again.

Transfiguration was their first class that day, taught by the same woman to bring them into the Sorting Ceremony—Professor Annis. She was tall and thin, her older age somehow adding to the regality she possessed walking into the room. Transfiguration was with Gryffindor as well, and somehow Morgana found herself sitting much too near Arthur and his friends. One of them, who sat straight in front of her, looked back and winked at her with dark mischievous eyes.

Morgana assumed her glare in return did its job well, because his grin immediately fell into a half-hearted smirk as he shrugged and turned to the front. Professor Annis had them copy down an atrocious amount of complicated notes concerning the five steps of transfiguration, and for the small part of the period left Morgana took her wand out, the first time since arriving in Hogwarts. It was ebony, with a dragon heart-string core—12 ¼ inches, unbending. The wood felt smooth and strong in her hands.

"Transfiguration is a difficult form of magic; much harder to master than simple charms that you will learn. It requires not only study, but a natural talent. Do not hope to make much progress today," she said, directing matches to each student's desk with her wand.

After ten minutes of her match looking neither pointier nor shinier, Morgana checked a quick glance around the room to make sure she was not the only one. Up ahead, the Gryffindor boys were silent, due to Professor Annis's iron gaze, but all looked discouraged. Enmyria was angrily tapping hers with her wand to Morgana's right, and to her left—Morgana did a double-take.

Lying on the desk two rows away from her was a perfectly-shaped, shiny, pointy-looking needle. Sitting on _Merlin's_ desk. Of course, she almost muttered, looking quickly away before he noticed. At the end of the class Professor Annis commented on the end of her match, which indeed did look sharper. Then she held up Merlin's perfect needle for all to see, earning Merlin a glare from most of his peers—Morgana might have been one of them, honestly—and an especially annoyed look from Arthur.

Arthur, who after class grabbed her unceremoniously by the arm and towed them into an alcove off the hallway. "Did you get a note from him as well?" he asked immediately, raising his eyebrows.

"Of course I did," she huffed back instinctively, crossing her arms. "What about it?"

Arthur's mouth tightened and he glared. He was obviously put-off by her attitude, which she was almost relieved for. Ever since the train, the need to distance herself from Arthur had grown like a dark seed in her gut. Morgana had never really gotten along with Arthur, even before they became adopted siblings and spent the summers enduring Nanny's wrath and Uther's emphatic presence side by side. One would think those kinds of experiences made camaraderie inevitable, but he had become more and more insufferable the older they got.

"I definitely don't owe you any favors," he snapped. "If you don't want to hear it, I won't tell you."

It was hard to say she wasn't a _little_ interested in whatever Arthur seemed so urgent to say. "Come on, out with it," she rolled her eyes at him. "What special thing should I know about our meeting?"

"Well, I'll be there," he pointed to himself, "and so will most of the teachers, his friends—Madame Helen. She's singing to him."

Morgana raised an eyebrow. "So . . . . ?"

Arthur let out an exasperated sigh. "I'm just forewarning you! It's my father's birthday, this Saturday." Her look of surprise seemed to alleviate his annoyance. "You've really had no chance to remember it, considering he was always here when he celebrated it, but I'm telling you now so you can be prepared."

"Alright," she answered slowly, brows pulled together. "What does that mean? Do I need to . . . "

"Make a card?" he shrugged, then grinned. "You'll think of something." Then Arthur left her, off to find his gaggle of Gryffindors no doubt. Morgana muttered something about boys and their uselessness before scurrying to catch up with the Slytherin crowd, who were several corridors ahead already.

Merlin really had no idea how he was supposed to please these people. Not to say that his first and primary drive was to make everyone else admire his work—it'd be nice, but it'd be a long shot—Merlin just wanted to release some of the magic inside him, which was concentrating and thickening the longer he withheld from it. Now, he shuffled to History of Magic silently, feeling ashamed of the needle in his pocket instead of proud.

The Ravenclaws were already seated, and Merlin moved up to the front, next to a normal looking kid Merlin almost recognized; likely from Herbology, the other class Ravenclaw was coupled with Slytherin in. The boy's face turned white, eyes wide, staring at something over Merlin's shoulder.

Hollow, soulless eyes stared at him—or through him, Merlin couldn't tell—as a woman walked from behind him to the front of the class. Actually, it was more like _floated_, up the steps to a desk and stopping at the blackboard. She looked somewhere near 70 years old, but it was more than that that made her old—dark, bruising colors circled her eyes, mouth such a thin line it was hardly noticeable until she opened it to speak.

"I'm Professor Cailleach, your History of Magic teacher," her lips whispered harshly, and Merlin shivered—then gasped along with most of the front row as she walked through the desk, gliding to face in front of them all. _A ghost._ Fitting, the rational part of Merlin supposed, for a history teacher.

It was by far the strangest first-lesson-lecture yet.

"Blimey," the boy muttered next to him, raising his eyebrows at Merlin when Professor Caileach took a brief pause from her chilling recant. It was a double period, of all misfortunes, so they were given five minutes of brief interlude. "This lady's managin' to make the _Soap Blizzard of 1398_ scary." He chuckled a little, and Merlin managed a shaky laugh in return. After class the bloke gave him an odd look before saying, "the name's Will."

"Merlin," he answered, putting a hand out automatically. The boy half-grinned before taking it, eyes gray and kind.

"How's school with you so far?" Will said in a friendly manner, and Merlin shrugged. "Same," Will nodded, smile widening a bit. "Potion's great and Herbology's interestin' enough. The other three I've gone to," he gave a mock scowl, "Probably fail out of by the end of the week I reckon."

"That's a little pathetic—aren't you Ravenclaw, after all?" Merlin put in, oddly comfortable. At least enough to throw in a mild insult or two.

"Oi! And you're most certainly Slytherin," Will shot back, now full-out grinning. He had his books in hand, moving toward the exit. Merlin followed. "Tomorrow's flying, ya know," he said, eyes bright. "Wonder if Aredian will let us _touch_ the brooms yet—if it's just to polish them, even."

"Aredian," Merin repeated, frowning. "That's the man—"

"—who was dragging out the poor bloke with Mr. Cedric, yeah," Will nodded, eyes tight. "What a load of rubbish. That's how Pendragon got clearance for him to be here—bloody taking up the flying class temporarily, so he gets authority."

"Who does Headmaster Pendragon have to answer to, anyway?" Merlin wondered aloud, trying to imagine it. Anyone questioning that man's authority, and living to tell the tale.

"Well, there's the ministry, right?" Will shrugged. Merlin nodded, though he had no idea what that was. "Though they mostly put up with his shite, I 'spose. Might even have a few workin' for them, even. Merlin," he glanced up at the taller kid, who took a moment to realize his companion had stopped mid-step with a strange expression. "Where're you goin'?"

"I'm—" Merlin cut himself off, suddenly realizing they'd walked out of the classroom and were following Will's housemates. "Oh." He didn't even have his books—they were likely at his desk still.

"See you in flying class," Will waved, and Merlin gave him a blank look. "That's our next class together!" Then he turned the corner and left.

Merlin was late to Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he had a grin on his face.

The next day Arthur practically bounced in his seat through Defense Against the Dark Arts and History of Magic, barely paying attention to Lancelot's pointed looks, Leon's attempts at conversation, or even Gwaine's uncanny talent of entertaining even in History, of all classes. At lunch he shoveled in his food, barely noticing what it was he was eating—as if that would make lunch end earlier and the next period come sooner.

"Really, Arthur," Leon raised an eyebrow, "at least chew it _once_." Arthur ignored him, gulping down the last of his pumpkin juice and sitting back finally. 20 minutes to go.

"I think it's just my wand," Gwaine was grumbling to Lancelot across from them.

"Your wand what?" Arthur asked, and Gwaine feigned shock.

"What? Joining regular human conversation again?" Gwaine asked in a scandalized tone, and Arthur rolled his eyes. "If you're so curious, I'm talking about Transfiguration. We have it again tomorrow morning, you know. And that damn spell isn't working any better."

"So you're blaming it on your wand?" Leon said, skeptical, but Gwaine nodded emphatically at all of them.

"Yeah! I've heard certain kinds of wand just blow at Transfiguration—and some completely cheat and do it for you. Bet that's what happened for the Slytherin kid." Arthur's eyes narrowed, but he only shrugged. His wand was cypress, 11 inches, reasonably supple with a phoenix feather core. While Arthur had no idea what all that meant, already he was beginning to feel attached to the plain piece of wood.

Whether or not _Merlin_ had an advantage with his wand, Arthur didn't care. It didn't change the fact he'd still shown up the entire class with his match-to-needle act. Arthur still had his match in his pocket, and had practiced on it the night before to no avail. Merlin being better than him—well, he'd already made fun of the kid. If the same kid turned out to be actually good at anything, Arthur as a rule simply had to be . . . better.

Maybe that was why,despite his initial excitement for the class, he didn't stop himself from glaring at Merlin when all the first years met on the Training grounds near the Herbology greenhouses and overlooking a few of Hogwart's towers. It was flat and grassy with the air still damp from a morning rain. Arthur waited alongside Lancelot, who glanced where his hard gaze was directed.

"You alright?" he said quietly, raising his eyebrows. Arthur didn't reply, and Lancelot glanced at Merlin once again before continuing. "Merlin's just—"

"The Slytherin kid is just a nuisance, a harmless little freak," Gwaine shrugged, butting in. "No need to waste time on him."

But Arthur wasn't finished with him. Merlin hadn't done anything terrible really—nothing besides stepped on the wrong person's toes, Arthur thought. He hadn't spoken a word to him on the train, but he managed to completely infuriate Arthur in less than a minute in the Entrance Hall. Add to that the whole rubbing-it-in-everyone's-faces in Transfiguration, and just—well, the unsettling presence that was Merlin. It didn't really rub Arthur the right way.

"Quiet down; class has started," an authoritative voice stopped all conversation and ended Arthur's thoughts. Aredian stood in front of the 1st years, all clustered in their own groups, his eyes disinterested but amused. Arthur broke his glare off of Merlin, who had stiffened oddly when the man spoke.

"I am Aredian, your instructor in Broom Flight Class. Welcome to your first flying lesson. Now, the school only has 20 broomsticks, but seeing as there are only 28 of _you_, you're all here together. We'll switch in 8 of you every now and then—so go on," he waved his wand and a large blanket of rickety old brooms unraveled, the brooms flying out to land in neat rows, "step up to the left side of a broomstick."

Students were streaming to them almost immediately, and by the time Arthur made it to them —whose group had been far away from where the broomsticks landed—almost every broom had been claimed. He saw a vacant one at the end of a row and ran to it, colliding with a tall, angular body who had been racing to it as well.

Arthur stepped back, the apology dying on his lips the moment his brain registered wide blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and an annoyingly innocent expression of surprise. Merlin was still quite close, and Arthur shoved him back, moving to take the spot they'd both ran for.

"Hey!" Merlin protested—though Arthur had been about to get there first, he was sure of it—and shoved him back. Arthur was ready to pull out his wand, or his fist, or _something_ when a large, gloved hand clamped on both their shoulders.

"Boys . . . " Aredian started, then got a good look at Arthur. "Oh! Arthur. That is, Mr. Pendragon. Is there a problem here?" Arthur just shot Merlin a look, since he was already where he wanted to be, and it was pretty fascinating watching the kid's face; how at first Merlin's brows pulled together, mouth opening to protest. But then his shoulders kind of sagged, and his eye flitted down, like he wished he could turn invisible. Arthur wouldn't be offended if he did.

"No sir," he mumbled to Aredian, backing off. Aredian gave a short chuckle, clapping Arthur on the shoulder, and proceeded to instruct the class. Meanwhile, Arthur tried to play down the overwhelming smugness that was his smile a little—too much was too much, after all.

"Now, stick your right hand over the broom and say, Up!" Aredian shouted, and students started a little before obeying.

"Up!"

Arthur's broomstick flew to his hand with surprising force, rocking him back just a bit. Any effort to hide his smug grin died now as Arthur surveyed his peers; no one else had managed it just yet. Leon, who'd also scavenged a broom, was staring at his with frightening intensity, as if willing it to rise.

"Keep at it," Aredian said impatiently, gesturing to them, and a chorus of "Up, up, UP" and "UP!" soon filled the air. Once enough of the students managed to get their brooms to them, and the rest just picked them off the ground, Aredian had everyone mount their broomsticks and do an experiment kick into the air. Arthur levitated easily, though he was a lot more focused and a lot less smug as his feet lifted off the ground.

Not to say Arthur had never ridden a broom before; he had his own, back home. One he was only allowed to play with on Saturdays, actually, thanks to Nanny and her strict schedule. Morgana and him used a plain pigskin as a quaffle, with gaps between trees' branches as the goals. It was completely different, of course, considering this wasn't a toy broom that only lifted about 10 feet in the air, but he at least knew what this felt like.

Others obviously did not. There were a few gasps, a few people clinging tight to the handles and others just jumping off quickly. Aredian helped some down before a second trial, and a third. Arthur was honestly getting bored by the time their instructor called for the eight watching to switch out with someone.

He felt a light tap on his shoulder, and Arthur turned to see Merlin, eyebrows raised and expectant. He gestured to the broom, clearing his throat, and if looks could kill the Slytherin boy would have dropped dead by now.

It was a nice, even hilarious view, however, just watching him try to follow Aredian's instructions. Merlin seemed skittish around their teacher, always jumping when the man spoke loudly. Arthur watched in amusement as the broomstick wacked him in the face at his command "Up," and how tightly he grabbed on to his broom handle a bare inch off the ground.

"AaarrRHHH!" A kid lifted too high on his broomstick and teetered off it, landing awkwardly on an ankle. Merlin jumped off his and ran to him, calling out "Will!"

"Alright, everyone, back to the ground," Aredian called while he rushed over. Merlin stiffened as the man kneeled next to him, grabbing the boy he'd called Will by the arm.

With help from Merlin they managed to get Will standing, supported mostly by Aredian's weight. "Everyone's to keep their feet planted on the ground till I get back," he told the class sharply, waving off any more help from Merlin. "Don't think I won't know—I will. My methods are infallible. If one person enters the air, I _will _find out. They'll be out of Hogwarts before they can say Quidditch."

With that he limped Will off the field, back turned to them.

The second he was gone Arthur, unthreatened and unimpressed, grabbed the broom held idly in Merlin's hands and pushed up off the ground. He called down to the boy below him as he swooped into the air: "Come join me, _Mer_lin!" Students gasped or cheered or called for him to come down, but Arthur's eyes were imprinted only on Merlin as he turned away from him, walking off without so much as glancing at Arthur. "Come on, don't _run away_!"

It had the desired effect: Merlin stopped. He turned around, face shrewd, and shot back, "From you?"

"What a relief—I thought you were deaf as well as dumb," he said, and made a show of swooping in front of Merlin, stopping him short. Merlin scowled.

"I already told you you were an ass," he said curtly. "If it upsets you that much, just set your daddy and his employees on me."

Arthur snorted. "As if I needed that." He made an impressive loop, grinning as Merlin rolled his eyes. "What? Think you could do better?" He raised an eyebrow, then cocked his head. "Come on, _Mer_lin. Face me. Face me." This would finally put all Arthur's pent-up anger to rest. His strange need, for whatever reason, to prove himself—prove himself better than Merlin—could finally be satisfied. Because there was no way Merlin was better than Arthur in this regard.

"Merlin, don't," a voice interjected, and the annoying, frizzy-haired girl Arthur still couldn't put a name-to-face for grabbed Merlin's arm. He looked at her a moment, then back at Arthur.

Arthur's grin widened as the Slytherin boy took a broomstick and kicked off.

**A/N: As for comments concerning Mergana, I DO want to make this as canon as possible, despite it being at Hogwarts. So it's a battle of what we all want and actual reality . . . **_**but**_** in reality (to ME), Morgana and Merlin had chemistry. Mind you, they're 11/12, so don't hold your breath. I'm biding my time...**


	5. In which Fate has a mind all its own

**In which Fate has a mind all its own**

Merlin wasn't the "whine-to-adult" or the "suffer-in-silence" type. Gwen couldn't blame him for letting the Pendragon boy into his head. Frankly, Arthur's words were getting to _her_ head. But if Aredian came back this second . . . if Aredian _saw_ those two right now . . . well, Merlin wouldn't have to wait till he was kicked out of Hogwarts for his blood heritage.

Arthur made a show of his skills at the beginning—students threw things like Extendable Ears, Remembralls, and Screaming yo-yos—by catching the projectiles in a range of impressive, last-second ways. Merlin had enough sense at least to not try and join the game, but sat on his broom with an unimpressed air.

They decided the winner would be the one who knocked the other off the other's broom. Simple, plain rule. But she was biting her lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood when it began, Arthur came zooming toward Merlin—now quite unsteady on his broom—and yanking his arm. Merlin practically did fall off, his entire body slipping off the side. But he managed to stay on, spinning on the handle completely till he was upright again.

They zigzagged around each other, Arthur clearly the more experienced flyer. Merlin was barely keeping himself on the broomstick _without_ someone else attempting to pull him off, really. "Just give up, Merlin," Arthur teased as Merlin made a swipe for him and completely missed. "I've been practicing flying since I could walk!"

"Really!" Merlin called back, pausing for a moment. "And how long have you been practicing being a prat?" That probably hadn't been the smartest thing to say, Gwen worried as Arthur's smirk turned into an out-right scowl. He made a deep dive for Merlin—who was completely unprepared for it—and there was no way at that speed Merlin could deflect his force, no way—

Gwen's mouth fell slightly open, just slightly, when Arthur's broom suddenly jerked up. It was an old broom, that was probably the cause of it, but Arthur nearly fell off as Merlin raced to him, grabbing his elbow and pulling roughly as he flew past. "Want to give up now?" Merlin taunted, swiping at Arthur again—whose broom was starting to shake as he moved it, like he was pressing both the gas and the brake on a car—and Arthur grunted, barely keeping control of his broom as he steered.

But a sight in the distance, whatever it was that Merlin could see, pulled him up short. He stared, almost frightened, unawares as Arthur conquered his broom again and shot forward, pulling Merlin by the leg. Gwen prepared to wince, prepared to see Merlin fall at least 30 feet from the air—if only Professor Grettir had taught them the levitation spell earlier that morning, and she could even _attempt_—

Arthur didn't release his hold, though. Merlin was dangling by his foot as Arthur flew down gently, one-handed, and dropped Merlin unceremoniously with the other. It was still five feet, knocking the breath out of him, but Gwen was so relieved she could almost _kiss_ him.

Well, not really, she hastily put the brakes on that thought. Just in a manner of speaking. "Merlin—you—are you hurt?" she looked over him worriedly, uncertain as to why his expression was so miserable.

"He saw us," Merlin groaned, throwing a hand over his face. Gwen looked around, confused, only seeing Arthur as he swirled and dived through the air, catching all manner of trinkets from his cheering crowd. "He's alright, isn't he?" The Morgana girl approached them, staying a few paces back with her dark brows pulled together.

"He won't be." Aredian's voice had Gwen practically jumping out of her skin. He stood grimly, looking down at Merlin with another teacher—it was Professor Alator, looking up at Arthur. The latter of whom quickly landed at the sight of his teachers, visibly swallowing.

"Professor, I can explain—" Arthur started.

"Enough of this nonsense!" Aredian barked, and then turned to the other teacher. The whole field was silent. "I suppose you'll take care of him, then," his head jerked to Arthur. Professor Alator nodded. "Alright, get up now. I saw you not only flying, but trying to _pull Mr. Pendragon off his broomstick_, young man. Even if I looked over going against my direct rule, which I'll consider for Arthur, I cannot overlook that." He pulled Merlin roughly up, eyes cold. Merlin almost sagged, he looked so defeated.

"Wait." Everyone turned to look at where the voice had come—Gwen completely glancing over Arthur, because it_ couldn't_ have been from his mouth, even if it was from his direction. But then Arthur repeated himself: "Wait. Look, I started it. I goaded him till he was in the air with me—I tried to pull him off his broomstick _first_." An uncomfortable silence ensued, Merlin looking for all the world like he just got told the sky was magenta, not blue.

"Detentions. For both of you," Aredian recovered first, glaring at Arthur.

"But first—" Professor Alator gave Aredian a pointed look, who sighed but nodded. "Arthur Pendragon. Put your broom back and follow me." Aredian gestured for Merlin to do the same, and Gwen walked with him back to the crowd of first years staring at them all dumb-struck. Like they'd never seen anyone get detention before.

"That was very stupid," she said to him quietly, and he grinned a little. "I'm just glad you got distracted. You weren't going to beat him." Merlin snorted at her.

"I could beat him," he waved it off.

"Really? You didn't seem . . . like you knew how to fly. At all," she said hesitantly, frowning a little at him. It was cute, even a little endearing, if Merlin thought he'd had a good chance-but also completely crazy.

Merlin leaned into her ear, whispering, "I was bluffing." She laughed, not for the first time mentally thanking her stars that she'd decided to sit next to Merlin on the train days before.

"Well, go on, then," she said, swatting at him when Aredian made an impatient noise. Merlin smiled at her, turning to put his broom in the empty bag. It immediately melted off his face as Arthur reached the bag to do the same.

He must have read Merlin's expression, because he put a hand up defensively and said, "Truce. You may be an idiot, but you're a brave one." He smirked, thinking himself funny, but apparently Merlin wasn't going to have any of that. He caught up to Arthur, face determined.

"Truce as in we won't _try_ to kill each other for now, or as in you'll have mercy and just ignore me?"

"Let's get a move on, boys!" Aredian called to them, waiting still, and Gwen watched intently as Arthur glanced at the man and then back at Merlin. An unusual expression flitted across his face—a little bit like discomfort, but also curiosity.

"There's something about you, Merlin," he said, shaking his head before taking the lead toward their teachers. "I can't quite put my finger on it, just yet!" He called over his shoulder.

Gwen let out a breath, turning from the boys' retreating figures, and almost jumped. Morgana stood right in front of her, expression distant and eyes almost cloudy. "Oh, er . . . sorry, Morgana," she looked down, intimidated by the girl for no tangible reason—who didn't seem to notice.

But after a moment she snapped out of her lost expression. "Gwen, isn't it?" Morgana asked her, suddenly focused and eyes friendly. "You and the Merlin boy . . . you're friends." Gwen hesitated, but nodded. It wasn't as if they'd known each other long, but the more she thought about it the more true it seemed to ring in her heart. _Head_. Or, whichever.

Morgana just nodded back, turning away probably to join some other Slytherins. Gwen's chin darted to her neck, all at once curious and mystified. What was that about?

The rest of the class period was mostly Aredian taking out his bad mood on everyone else, even accusing Sefa, a fellow Hufflepuff from her dorm, of "having so little aptitude" at flying that if he "hadn't checked this batch of students five times over" he would swear right then there wasn't "an ounce of magical ability" in her and she "might as well be a mudblood." In short, Gwen was relieved to be in her next class, Transfiguration, even if it meant staring at a match till her eyes watered.

Morgana went to Potions on her own, far ahead of any of her classmates. It was strange, how loud and harsh her feet echoed in the dungeon passage without the murmurs of other students to dull the sound. Comforting, in a way, to be on her own without the constant press of bodies and motion. And remarkable, how immediately relieved her heart was when Gaius looked up from a book at his desk, face brightening.

"Morgana," he said, standing and crossing to her. She stood, rocking back on her heels slightly, smiling at him.

"How are you, Gaius?" she said, starting with a harmless question. "Oh—I mean, _Professor_ Gaius," she corrected herself with a shake of her head, but he waved it off.

"Only in class, dear, only in class." He gave her a look, one that read clearly he knew something was on her mind. "I am fine my dear. And you?"

"Hogwarts is great," she answered, and stalled a little longer, twisting the ends of her hair with two fingers.

"You and your brother are staying out of trouble, I hope?" he offered, obviously teasing.

"I wouldn't say that, no," she sighed, realizing she might as well get to the point. "Arthur is getting so—so _intolerable_. You know him. But it's worse since we got here, since we're here with _Uther_. It doesn't make any sense, that . . . " she trailed off hopelessly, wondering herself what she was getting at.

"Arthur is in Gryffindor, correct?" Gaius inquired gently, and it appeared he knew what she meant better than she did. Morgana nodded briefly, and immediately something got stuck in her throat. "And you are in Slytherin?"

Whatever was in her throat must have gotten thicker, because all she could do was nod again. And ignore whatever was causing the burning sensation behind her skin, in her eyes. "Not entirely strange, considering those houses are the most trouble-making, out of them all," he said gently, lips curled slightly up. She managed a shaky laugh. "And rivals, as well."

"Rivals," Morgana shook her head sadly. "I wouldn't call us that. Me and Arthur, I mean." Her eyes flicked down, away from his inquisitive gaze. "That is, I don't want to be." He smiled, understanding. "Gaius," she peeked up at him, clasping her hands behind her back, "I know, out of anyone, I can ask you this. Just—just tell me what you think, truly." He nodded after a moment, lips pursed. She took a breath, attempting to contain the frustration and abhorrence that was threatening to leak into her voice. "Why has Uther really banned the muggle-borns?"

His startled expression was cut short when a sneeze echoed into the classroom, from just outside the door. A sheepish student revealed himself, face flushed and eyes flicking from her to the ground.

"Sorry," he said with a regretful smile, which immediately turned down when he felt more than saw the daggers Morgana's eyes threw at him. _Good, _she thought, taking a kind of pleasure from his embarrassment as it couldn't be more obvious Merlin had been eavesdropping on them. Gaius gave him a disapproving look, then raised his eyebrows at Morgana in a way that translated to _we'll talk about this later_. She just nodded, shooting one more glare at Merlin before taking a seat in the corner.

Merlin felt bad, but mostly just relieved. And a little elated. He wasn't sure why hearing Morgana question the rule against muggle-borns caused this blind, silly hope to surface in his mind. Perhaps it had to do with Morgana being Morgana _Pendragon_, who of all people shouldn't be the one questioning the Headmaster's authority. Arthur obviously didn't.

But Merlin heard her voice when she asked—he could tell it confused her, maybe even angered her.

Gaius started class a few minutes later, explaining how they would be brewing their first potion today. With a glance around the room, Merlin noticed in a small bit of smugness that Arthur hadn't come to class yet. They'd been pulled into the building halfway through Flying class, Aredian barking out details on their detention together—which was helping Mr. Cedric polish the armory throughout the castle, starting a week from the following night.

Simple enough, though Merlin knew absolutely nothing about armor much less how to clean it. Aredian said they would be excluded from Flying class the rest of that day and to go to their next classes at the bell. That was when Professor Alator whisked away Arthur somewhere, speaking in low tones and looking horribly serious. Merlin would have almost pitied Arthur, if he weren't such a prat.

It appeared that Arthur's own punishment would extend beyond just polishing armor. He still wasn't back, which meant either Professor Alator was lecturing him or Arthur skipped class. Either way, Merlin couldn't help but be a little glad. Less of him to deal with, after all.

But then, of course, fate had a way of making sure Merlin would never be rid of Arthur Pendragon.

"Alright class, the person sitting with you at your table will be your partner. You will both share ingredients and work together. If you forget any of the steps, they are on page 10 of your textbooks. See me for any questions—now, begin." Merlin looked at the empty chair next to him—the only vacant seat in the room, actually—and raised his hand.

"Professor Gaius," he said, and the teacher looked, immediately realizing the problem.

"Work with these two, then. Here, Merlin will be joining you." Gaius was talking to the girls at the table next to him—a girl with spiky brown hair and, of all horrors, Lamia. The teacher turned away, not noticing the slow stare the girl gave him with her dark eyes. Merlin gulped, dragging his chair over and trying to avoid her gaze.

Lama proceeded to whisper something in the other girl's ear, who gave him an appraising look. Merlin ignored them, turning to page 10, just when the classroom door opened and Arthur pranced in, wearing a grin so wide it should have split his face.

"Sorry I'm late, Professor," he said, placing a note on Gaius' desk. He didn't look sorry at all. He waited as Gaius read whatever was on it, giving his friends pointed looks that said _wait till I tell you what happened._

"We're starting on our first potion, Mr. Pendragon—the Cure for Boils," Gaius said, gesturing for him to take a seat. Arthur's grin turned into an annoyed smirk when he saw the empty chair, obviously on the "Slytherin side" of the room. "Merlin, looks as though you have a partner after all," the professor said, and Merlin held back a groan.

He dragged his chair back, all the while avoiding eye contact with Arthur. 50 more minutes. 50 more till class ended—he could manage not strangling Arthur for that long, right? The Gryffindor boy had said "Truce," after all. This would be very much putting that agreement to the test.

Arthur dropped to his seat with a sigh, glancing at Merlin's book before turning to the same page. Merlin began to crush the snake fangs with his pestle, glancing at Arthur's pewter cauldron. "You want to light the fire," he said to Arthur, nodding at the cauldron. Arthur complied as Merlin put in four measures of the fangs, and they continued the potion in relative silence.

Merlin waved his wand over it—it was English oak with a dragon heartstring core, pliant and 13 ¾ inches—and it would be another 35 minutes, at least, till they could do the next step. He spent about 10 of them looking over the page again and again, reading extra things like jinxes it worked against. He practically had it memorized by the time Arthur cleared his throat.

"Merlin," Arthur said, and it was strange hearing his name out of the boy's mouth-absent of his usual leering to go with it. Merlin hummed in answer, glancing up at him. "Did Aredian talk to you . . . about anything _else_, after they gave us detentions?"

"No."

Merlin raised an eyebrow when Arthur smiled smugly in response, but the boy didn't offer up any follow-up information. "Why? What did Professor Alator talk to you about, after?" he pressed eventually, after a few more minutes of silence, and Arthur shrugged, smirking.

"It'll be out, eventually," he said with an air of importance, and Merlin rolled his eyes.

"Considering you're dying to tell me, I expect it'll be out soon," Merlin retorted, glancing out of the corner of his sight as Arthur narrowed his eyes at him.

"I'll have you know—" he started, then cut himself short, giving Merlin a long-suffering look. "Nice try. But I'm un-crack-able. Besides, I don't like it when others envy—it's unbecoming, really." Merlin snorted, positive the exact opposite was actually true.

"Don't you have, oh I don't know, some_ thing_ to add to this yet?" Arthur added hastily, sniffing disdainfully at the assignment before him.

"Yeah, in another ten minutes," Merlin responded, then shook his head as Arthur peered hopelessly over the instructions before him. He spent the remainder of that time flicking things off his quill, onto the table—likely his own bogeys, Merlin would bet—and silently communicating with his friends across the room.

"Alright, now we put in the horned slugs," Merlin said after the minutes were up, and gingerly used pliars to take some from Arthur's kit.

"Oi! Why don't you use your own?"

"It's a group project; we both contribute."

"Doesn't seem like a group to me. Seems like me plus a skinny nerd that should mind where he steps."

"Well you'd have to contribute _something_, then, wouldn't you?"

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"I'm calling you what you're worth right now. _Nothing_. Now move over and let me finish this."

Arthur leaned back in his seat, affronted, but Merlin ignored him as he added the rest of the ingredients to the potion. After the right number (and direction) of stirs and a wave of his wand, it was done. A puff of pink smoke curled into the air from the blue liquid, which meant they'd—_he'd_—done it right.

Other students were finishing at that time as well, taking the cauldrons off to cool. Most of their concoctions emitted a dull, gray smoke, or none at all. It looked as though two others got it right as well—a Gryffindor group, and Morgana's—but one had obviously _completely_ failed. Gaius was rushing over, telling them hastily to back away as the cauldron melted. A horrible odor filled the room, so badly Merlin's eyes were burning when he stood and saw one of the boys take too long to retreat and erupt in horribly bulbous boils across his arms and up his neck.

"You—take him to the hospital wing," Gaius instructed quickly, and the boy's partner nodded, slinging an arm around his friend.

Arthur was laughing hysterically, watching as they left. Merlin gave him a_ stop laughing you pillock _glare, but he only laughed harder. Merlin proceeded to swing his foot back, Arthur's laugh cutting off sharply as shoe-met-shin. His smirk vanished for a moment, then came back-mischievous.

"Professor Gaius," Arthur said as the teacher cleaned up the gobby leftovers of the cauldron with dragon-hide gloves and a strange–looking mop. Merlin's eyebrows pulled together-Pendragon wasn't about to turn _tattle_ now, was he?

"Yes, Arthur." He didn't look up from the mess.

"If I was, to say, jinx someone, would it be alright? Would the potion, if brewed correctly, work on it?" he asked innocently, glancing down at his textbook.

"Yes, it'd be alright," Gaius said, nodding. "But if we were to do that—"

Arthur didn't wait for him to finish. Before Merlin could blink a wand was pointing directly between his eyes and a voice was shouting, "_Fernunculus!_"

Immediately Merlin felt his face began to swell, skin tingling and pulsing and pushing. Huge lumps of pain were surfacing, squeezing his facial features in strange ways that made it hard to see or hear or breathe. He stumbled back into his seat, just barely hearing Arthur's roaring laughter. Than Gaius was there, shouting at Arthur and all Merlin could think was that he hated Pendragons. He really did.

Then the fully-cooled potion at their table caught his eye, and Merlin grabbed a sampling cup, dipping it into the blue liquid and draining the liquid quickly. It was a lot less harmless than its innocent, clear-blue color would leave one to believe-a bit like what rotten wood must taste like-but with a sigh of relief he immediately felt less pressure, the large lumps in his face shrinking as Gaius took 10 points away from Gryffindor and gave Arthur (another) detention.

Gaius turned to Merlin then, and looked quite surprised to see it already receding. "My potion," Merlin said, gesturing to it almost proudly. Then a brilliant idea popped into his head.

"It worked! You said it'd be alright, Professor," Arthur argued, "if I were to jinx someone. Else I wouldn't have done it! Merlin told me-" What Merlin supposedly said, they'd never know.

He was too busy—upturning the whole pot of potion onto Arthur's head.

Arthur sputtered as he was completely drenched-Merlin leaving the pot on his head for good measure-and threw it off himself with a yell, face red and body dripping while he glared at Merlin. Who could hardly suppress his laugh, much less his smile. Everyone turned to the sight, and a variance of snorting, laughter and whooping started. Gaius's mother-of-all-eyebrows reached his hairline then, mouth pursed into the tiniest of lines.

"You're dismissed early," He turned and said in a clipped voice to the class; all of whom immediately quieted. "I will evaluate your potions and give your marks on Friday. Your homework till then is to write a report from page 13-15, on the creator of the Cure-Boils potion and its impact on history. Off you go." They all filed out quickly, with a few stolen glances back at the spectacle.

Then he looked at Merlin and Arthur. "You two. Stay."

**A/N: Only Gwen's wand composition is left (of the main four)! Yay  
By the way 60 people viewed up to my last chapter, which I'm quite happy about *flail dance* Maybe I'm just easily pleased. Oh, and reviews are loved. Adored. Worshiped. You get my drift.**


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